strength & sight
January 24, 2012 § Leave a comment
On paths whose markers are sometimes blurry, rests answers to difficult days. Peace and comfort in unspoken moments wait on bended knees. I do not always find my way to the ground, but from my first moments as a mother I have whispered little prayers for strength and sight with the same ease I recite prayers of my youth; I ask for strength to walk among challenges and sight to find my way.
My earliest prayers for my son were laced with pleas for time. Holding him in the sterile setting of a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit my worries echoed loudly to the rhythm of various monitors. My heart could not speak over the sight of my child’s needs, I had to look at the strength of my son’s spirit to see his true size and allow his peaceful nature to lend me peace. Years later, I am still looking to his spirit to measure his need.
I wait for the sight of my son rounding the corner for home each afternoon to gauge his day. I review teachers’ messages littered with the day’s challenges to weigh difficulties, using each sharing as an opportunity to understand my son’s experiences. Yesterday, doubt and fear lingered between the words of one teacher’s concerns.
Underneath the weight of worry I bowed my head whispering words in search of strength to face what my son cannot hide from. I wondered at how to help and looked around me for what I could not see. Then, there came a message of hope. Someone that sees my son’s challenges, lends my son smiles, and displays an interest in his gifts will join our team of teachers. Someone new has come along to walk with us among our challenges.
With thanks I whispered words of gratitude that my son is not alone and that there is someone to help him find his way until he can walk independently with strength and sight.
funny pages
January 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
There are four years between my children, library shelves heavy with written words could measure the space between them. My son reads with a natural ease; ingesting volumes of literature like air filling immeasurable depths inside his small, lithe frame. My daughter extracts words from the pages of books more intentionally, she leans into a book exquisitely extracting each word with the steadfast care of an anthropologist; examining each meaning, attributing value.
In life my daughter walks ahead, aware of the world around her. She is fluid in unspoken social exchanges, communicating efficiently and appropriately. My son walks in the world like a traveler in a new land, his knowledge of unspoken social language broken and based in clumsily memorized academic examples.
There is a place my children meet as equals, a playground of social and literary; life sketched in clean lines and thoughts condensed into neatly outlined bubbles. Words and images spill loosely, thoughts mapped on the pages of comic books.
Garfield’s sarcasm and Odie’s boundless joy; Calvin and Hobbes friendship, innocence, and imagination; the clever contest of Spy vs. Spy; the contemporary commentary of the Simpsons. My children align themselves side by side as they shuffle through stacks of comic books. On these pages my son more capably navigates social humor; images capture emotional context with clarity. My daughter feels less overwhelmed in this space where images create clues that lend comprehension to new words.
More importantly, for those minutes shared between pages riddled with humor my children are friends sharing smiles and laughter over a book. Late at night and on lazy weekends these books freckle the path between their rooms. I find them scattered near chairs, among Legos, beside the computer. One picks up where another walks away; it has become a dance they perform together and apart to a silent unending song.
patience & persistence
January 17, 2012 § 1 Comment
If I could, I would write these two words in ribbon and tie them to my day, a beautiful reminder in moments of doubt and uncertainty that I must move mindfully forward with patience and persistence as I wade through preliminary procedures for my son’s Individual Education Plan. For those that do not know, my son is diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder-Not Otherwise Specified an Autism Spectrum Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. This year my son started Middle School and as his peers settled into the routine of this new milestone, my son unraveled. Months later my husband and I are still searching for answers and guidance.
I have requested a battery of tests to identify my son’s abilities and challenges in an effort to insure he receives the education he deserves. My son has grown tired of tests, my husband and I still have little information to inform our decisions. Like the proverbial needle in the haystack we keep striking blindly into our days reaching out in search of answers, hoping to grasp the yet unattainable.
While we wait on test results, I brainstorm; I read and research various sources looking for pieces of my son in text books to help me understand the simple truths that complicate his days. Interpreting social situations is painfully frustrating. Dividing tasks into manageable steps that can be systematically followed in a timely fashion to complete an assignment requires assistance. My son struggles to stay on task, his mind cluttered with ideas that tug at his attention; light, sound, textures invite him to hide or alternately explore. These truths are ever present and often unacknowledged.
If you were to meet my son, you would probably find him endearingly quirky. He works to make eye contact and contort his face into appropriate responses. At times he will stand in another’s personal space, speak excitedly in run on sentences about subjects beyond his age, punctuating his thoughts with misplaced humor. In those moments you may wonder at his maturity or quietly question if there is something else informing his behavior. My son works daily to navigate unspoken social cues and to meet countless external expectations. I hope a day will come when others will meet him halfway; attempting to understand and appreciate his hidden gifts. Loyal, determined, kind, and curious he is a source of immeasurable joy and inspiration. A new day is on the horizon and I am filled with hope for his future.
My son’s school is organizing an event to educate students about invisible handicaps. My son has offered to lend his voice to the day in hopes of raising consciousness for and appreciation of differences. It will be his first formal act of advocacy for himself and others like him. As he gathers his thoughts, I wonder at the words he will share and how they will be received.
It is a year of growing pains, trying to adapt to change while challenging others’ expectations daily; creating friendships and partnerships in a new school setting. Patiently and persistently we move forward towards answers and acceptance.
harmony
January 16, 2012 § Leave a comment
Recently, my little girl was invited to a sleepover birthday party for a friend. My heart stuttered over the word sleepover in much the same way it has each milestone; an emotional hiccup as I accept new acts of independence. This was to be my daughter’s first evening away from family and for all my maternal fussing, I knew that she would do well; confidant and adventurous there was no doubt enthusiasm would guide her through the experience.
Upon arrival the girls gathered close for a picture and I paused to note something greater than my daughter’s milestone. Nestled hip to hip the little girls were a rainbow of diversity. My daughter stood amidst new friends completely unconcerned by their differences and equally comfortable in her sense of self.
A beautiful moment of harmony; friends at peace with and accepting of one another, joined in celebration and play. I could not have dreamed a more perfect experience for my daughter’s first evening away from home and family. A microcosm of her world infused with friendship and kindness, diversity and acceptance.
pardon the way that I stare
January 12, 2012 § 1 Comment
My girl. My daughter. Sometimes when I watch you I sing quietly to myself. You do this, inspire music. From your earliest days, I would gather you near and sing softly Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. I still catch my breath trying to find words for my joy, and then I hear music.
I often follow behind you, trying to imagine what you are thinking; intrigued and curious. You extract adventure from thin air and happy celebrations without cause. Unpredictable moments of passionate anger or sadness leave me bewildered as easily as spontaneous hugs and wise declarations make me humble. You are an enchanting riddle that I am certain will forever challenge my expectations. Some days I want to be more like you and so I marvel when you want to be like me.
Last night I watched you sit with your homework, casually guiding your big brother with his. You have learned naturally to redirect his attention, to draw him into consciousness, to lead him. Your love is unconditional even when your patience is limited. I love you for this and I cannot say it enough, you have a heart that inspires us all to do our best.
As much as you shadow me and guide your brother, you are your daddy’s girl too. You play as easily as you laugh, you love as deeply as you hurt; these are gifts you share with your father. I cannot claim these pieces of you, so I cherish you for possessing them.
You are mine as much as you are your own. My little girl that creates music and smiles, laughter and love.
school & home
January 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
The other day I had a profound moment of uncertain, certainty. I carried my thoughts carefully tucked away in my mind, weighing if I should give them a voice. At day’s end, the house quiet, I told my husband I needed him to listen without questioning my sanity or nudging me into action.
With a deep breath and full heart, I said: I want to teach our son from home. Maybe. My husband, whatever his initial thoughts, honored my wish and kept silent. I unraveled my concerns and hopes measuring them each against possibility. The core truth: I’m not sure a traditional school setting is right for our son.
Earlier the same evening I had sifted through old pictures of both children with my daughter, noting the happy dimpled little boy of days gone by. In each picture my son was peaceful, whole. There were no worried lines on his face, no sadness in his eyes. Most school days I cannot see his smile and his spirit feels buried beneath sadness and anger. An eternally curious child he used to beg to attend school, eager to learn and make friends. Now he hides behind individual interests, his footsteps heavy with resistance as he finds his way to school. I paused in sorrow wondering, are we suffocating the joy from learning?
I still do not have an answer. I have new questions. Would I be facilitating my son’s escape from a traditional school setting that might better prepare him for life? Am I capable of providing a balanced, structured education that would prepare my son for a limitless future? Do I then keep my daughter home? Does she have the same option as her brother? Where do I begin and how do I know if it is the right fit for our family? What if I become ill, we move, the Earth slips off its axis; what then? What next?
This is what I know. Both of my children are fortunate to have teachers who are passionate about teaching and compassionate when faced with challenges, who see my children as individuals and communicate openly with me. Of course, we also live in a competitive environment where our children are measured endlessly against themselves, classmates, and nameless others. Teachers are forced to teach in preparation for tests and not all subjects are weighted equally. Our school days are short and our school years fragmented with oddly spaced vacations. There are gaps in my children’s education that I as their mother am obligated to fill; pockets of potential, natural resources overlooked.
I wonder if there is a way to draft a lifelong education plan that truly inspires independent learners. Is there a way to nurture learning and educate from home in celebration of the joy of learning while preparing our children to become contributing members of society? Do I continue to work with the school, outlining my son’s unique needs and partnering with his teachers to navigate this experience together? If my daughter is happy, is contentment acceptable or do I insist she be inspired?
I cast my worries to the wind and wonder what answers I might find.
relative lessons
January 2, 2012 § Leave a comment
The first day of the New Year was quiet, our children too tired to gather the energy required to antagonize one another. Until bedtime. In a moment of simple sibling dispute over territory, the day ended in sleepy tears. My husband and I stoically maintained a straight face and a stern presence despite our daughter’s precocious spirit and our son’s persistence.
Our son held tightly to his identity as a victim of longstanding torture at the hands of his little sister. He skirted his contributions to the exchange while our daughter willingly confessed to her crimes, passionately defending herself with a character portrait of her brother that left little room for innocence. My husband and I slowly unraveled the truth, veteran siblings ourselves, while hiding our humor behind carefully placed lessons.
The moments after our good nights were marked by appreciation and laughter for our children’s personalities. I like that our children argue because it lends them an occasion to work through conflict towards respectful resolution with someone they love. Relationships exist between imperfect people making conflict unavoidable. I admire both children for planting their feet in justice on their own behalf. So often in life there are times you must stand up for yourself and home is a safe place to practice. Finally, forgiveness is something they must find for themselves, it cannot be forced by an authority figure. My children’s tearful hugs at the end of their evening lingered just long enough for me to know they were not lost to their own feelings, but mindful of one another’s.
Tiny lessons relative to life.
seasons & sentiments
December 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
Christmas Eve I will not sleep, eagerly anticipating the first sleepy footsteps of my children tumbling from their beds into the hallway. For now, I want to postpone the unraveling of ribbon and wrapping paper. Let the surprises linger a little longer. I’m not ready. Not yet. I want to rest suspended in anticipation and make-believe.
I know each gift by shape. I worked without lists trying to select items that would find a home in the hands of the right person. Now, I can only wait and wonder if the gift will fit their wishes. If the recipient will feel that sense of joy that comes from feeling appreciated and understood. The silent sound on rounded lips that fills their eyes with glee.
This year, I want to pack away our ornaments, but leave the spirit of the season scattered like pine needles in the corners of our home. To wake each day in celebration of small blessings and with faith in possibility. I want love and kindness to echo like remnants of carols and candlelight to reflect the magic of twinkling lights. This year, I am not ready to undo the tidings of the season.
Dear Santa, stop here last.
reading into words
December 20, 2011 § 3 Comments
Eagerly and forcefully my daughter thrusts herself among the pages of books. Frustration and determination clatter noisily, the air around her sparks with energy. Books stacked haphazardly in the window of her room are silent witnesses to her journey, friends she has accumulated along the way.
She began a quiet companion. When I read aloud, my daughter’s eyes would measure my words as I pulled them from the pages of another’s telling. She would watch my mouth willing the story into the air around us. I would monitor her enthusiasm under my lashes bemused by her posture as she leaned into the author’s spell.
In turn, slowly, I became the audience. I celebrated my daughter’s growth, noting her furrowed brow as she curled over the lines of language, conjuring voices, and breathing life into each page. She has journeyed from listener to storyteller, winding her way around self-doubt with perseverance.
Most recently she set aside fiction gathering a dictionary to her side as she nestled into bed. She fell asleep having carefully bookmarked pages with small toys. In the morning she shared each dogeared word with me like colors, twisting and turning them in the light of day so that I might see them more completely.
I am eager for my daughter to paint her world with words, to see through her lens. I am eager for the reader to become the writer.
gift (verb)
December 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
My husband sings a frustrated chorus of What would you like? every holiday and on each special occasion. There is no simple answer. Last year I wanted warm boots, a long down coat, and a soft robe to ward off the winter chill. They weren’t extravagant gifts, but they made me feel loved. Another time it might be something unique to the occasion; a gift I would look upon with memories, like the silver rattle I gave my husband to announce I was pregnant with our daughter. I rarely tie happiness to things. I may pause over a picture and dwell on a memory; rest my hand on my necklace recalling my husband’s proposal; extract old letters and savor words written in another moment. Small acts of love, little gestures are my greatest joy.
This week my mother sent a collection of gifts in the mail, cluttering our doorstep with happy surprises; ornaments and sweets, tiny tokens of the holiday season. When the boxes arrived today, I found myself as eager as my children to uncover the treasure nestled inside. My mother stretched each gift from an act of generosity into scattered causes of celebration. This, delayed anticipation and whimsical gifts of sentiment, is my Christmas wish this year. I want to fill our home with a sense of celebration and togetherness.
My daughter said to me today: If the Grinch is real and he takes all of our stuff on Christmas Eve, we will be okay. The most important thing is that we have each other. She sealed her words with a hug and kiss before wrapping another of her toys in her doll’s quilt and labeling it with scrap paper for Daddy in a sea of tiny hearts on waves of hugs and kisses. My daughter’s awareness and my mother’s kindness cannot be purchased or wrapped with ribbon. Thinking ahead to Christmas day I know my greatest gifts rest in moments with my husband and children not in pretty packages beneath the tree.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more? – Dr. Seuss
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